Poet's Corner

Discussion in 'Writing' started by sky dancer, Nov 15, 2008.

  1. midcan5

    midcan5 liberal / progressive

    Jun 4, 2007
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    Philly, PA
    A bit of a change, some may laugh, some may cry....

    "Twisting and turning to alternative facts
    The viewer cannot bear to read Twitter;
    The swamp remains un-drained;
    Mere commentary is loosed upon the world,
    The Putin tide is loosed, and everywhere
    Millennial innocence is drowned;
    The 'best' lack all connection, while the worst
    Are full of passionate insecurity."

    Rest below.

    A Citizen Paying Attention: The Second Don-ing (with apologies to the shade of W.B. Yeats, as well as to my fellow Americans)


    'The Beautiful Poetry Of Donald Trump'

    By Rob Sears

    "I’m really rich
    I’m very proud of my new crystal collection
    I have a Gucci store that’s worth more than Romney
    I order thousands of televisions a year
    Six people do nothing but sort my mail
    Sorry haters and losers!
    He who has the gold makes the rules"

    More below.

    The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump
  2. Angelo

    Angelo Gold Member

    Jan 5, 2019
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    _Arkansas~_The Natural State_
    • Thank You! Thank You! x 1
  3. Mindful

    Mindful Platinum Member

    Sep 5, 2014
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    Here, there, and everywhere.

    By Guy Walker.

    In normal times we can expect obedient
    squadrons, in silent faithfulness, to do
    their duty in repairing the ingredient
    that bears the codes; the daily damage to
    the chains of information that denote
    us and exactly what we are. Remote
    from us, forgotten, their activity;
    they’re blithe and automatic over years,
    intelligencers (docile engineers),
    all working with a perfect industry.

    We can accept our programmed obsolescence
    and Hayfleck’s limiting when ripeness comes;
    harder to baulk at such guessed-at senescence
    when Deaths’ promised full-stop resolves our sums
    and consummates our grammar. A known end,
    to a parametered-type mind, will lend
    resistance to (without it, atrophied
    and shapeless) sense. For not to know we die,
    to be unparsed, would terrify;
    to mean at all needs context to succeed.

    But when, awry, a strand of DNA,
    missteps, in absent mind, to lose the plot,
    then is unleashed (that unknown, secret day)
    a disinhibited ‘immortal.’ Not
    inclined to toe the line this megalo
    obeys blind evolution’s rules, and so
    runs riot; a renegade, an order-trasher,
    hell-bent on self-promotion; vandal who,
    unschooled, conducts a vulgar palace coup,
    And shows himself a boorish party-crasher.

    Abandoning the logos and its codes,
    illiterate of sense, a tumour juts
    its snout into a library, discommodes
    systems of form and information put
    in order by design. An ignorant
    Yahoo, gross presence, strayed abroad with scant
    regard for sense or system, overturning
    the delicately loaded stacks that house
    our tales. How guess what world-mistake aroused
    this blinkered drunk, so wholly undiscerning?

    Precarious person is alloyed with flesh,
    a farting, salty livestock; animal
    whose pleasures, intimately, are enmeshed,
    whose fierce and briny loves, hold us in thrall
    so joyously. We husband it, our beast,
    until the siege-craft of this arriviste,
    mole-like, surprises us inside our keep
    from unexpected quarters of ourselves;
    our person’s home wherein he delves,
    to sabotage our balance and to reap

    the cruellest harvest from distress. We learn
    a queasy intuition from this Fifth
    Column; a knowledge we discern
    as inescapable and that comes with
    our plight—when fragile cells are undermined,
    our selves, and what we like to call our mind’s
    attempted too. There’s barely separation
    between our person and our person. A
    great miracle being fouled will bring dismay
    and, in this case, a double consternation.
  4. Mindful

    Mindful Platinum Member

    Sep 5, 2014
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    Here, there, and everywhere.
    Crystalline Heaven, Gustave Dore, 19th cent

    Gaudeamus Igitur

    How is it to be whole? Either oh-so-high,
    Above the fray, poised and self-possessed,
    Or in the cellar of unacknowledged despair,
    a precinct below, too hollow to scare,
    Where petty appetite and sorrow score their
    Mark, feigning grandeur, while trivial
    Souls roil pitifully with quotidian sighs.
    How be whole? Why, learn that to die
    Is part of our poem, sung unto the
    Crystalline sphere with its kaleidoscope
    Of Seraphim and rippling cascades of hope:
    Our storied empryean blazoned gold.
    Trust the holy Singer, then, preparing our place,
    His tale of longing, His advent of grace.

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